


Born to be Wrong

by Gorgos



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Cold War, Friendship, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Original Character(s), Other, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9897482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgos/pseuds/Gorgos
Summary: 1966, Vietnam. War isn't like they told him. There's no heroes. There's no hopes. And you just want to go home. But even in the middle of this mess, good things can happen. Good things like... meeting John Donovan.Canon elements from the game and original interpretations.





	1. Eve of Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a little warning about this fic: you will surely find spelling, grammar and conjugation mistakes (i'm not a native english speaker). I'll try to fix them as much as I can ;)

 

**_February 1966_ **

 

Lincoln regrets the time when he still managed to laugh at new recruits. Sons of middle-class families who wants to return home in the first week.

He couldn't do it anymore. He wanted to discourage these poor guys to drag their boots in this goddamn mess. There's nothing good, here. No honor, no glory... Nothing.

Father James tried to do it until the day he left for Nam. The priest knew war and hated it: there were no good reason to go kill poor people in their own country. He used to think that Lincoln only looked for a place in this madman's world. He had Sammy, but Sammy had Ellis, his real son. The orphan whom was Lincoln never really felt legit even with his foster parents's love. Too much pride.

And here he was. Viet-Nam. US Army. 223rd Infantry.

Every days look the same. Rain. Blood. A chemical smell in the air. Powder. Helicopters and their deafening rumours. All this sounds filled his skull, days and nights, when he was awake and when he was asleep. Time didn't exist anymore.

The results of their missions were catastrophic. His superiors said nothing about it, not good for the morale. " They wouldn't get it, anyway ", said a lieutenant in its presence. Lincoln was Corporal, he oversees a small group of men and reports informations to the sergeants. Almost no authority but the word in front of his name was a small victory.

There's two sergeants in the unit: two bastards in their own way. Sergeant Burton, proud son of a Second World War's veteran, so patriotic that Lincoln was persuaded that he had the American flag tattooed on his ass. It was HIS war, HIS moment. Lincoln admired him, before. He was a loud mouth, a tough guy. Time proved him wrong.

The other one, Sergeant Ennemans, was in his late forty, fed up with everything and especially the sight of these young pricks who tought they were soldiers. He hated Burton. Lincoln never really knows why. Maybe to prove that he still has some balls.

They often threatened each other: martial court, decommissioning... But after all, these two morons didn't drag a lot of corpses behind them. It didn't mean everything was alright. Most of their missions consisted in infiltrating a zone, be overflowed by Viet-Cong and retreat. When they weren't shell by American strikes !

It's Burton who named him Corporal. He insisted on the fact that he gave a promotion to Lincoln Clay " in spite of " the color of his skin. " You're a godamn son of a bitch, Clay ! I've never seen a guy like you before ! You'll make a hell of a Corporal, nobody's gonna fuck with you ! How tall are you ? 6'4, 6'5 ? I'm sure you eat Viets for breakfast! " He was proud as a peacock. What an asshole.

Lincoln lost faith in his superiors. It was something terrifying. After a few months, he finally gets them right: Burton wanted a promotion, Ennemans wanted to be injured or die as quickly as possible. They didn't give a fuck about their men and were friendly with those they considered as " good american boys ". So... not his kind.

As a Corporal, his " models " gave him good examples of what not to do. He knows his men. He knows about their broken hearts, their joys, their wounds. Lalande, Cole, Vaughan, Doroquez, Osborne, Ellis, Wisinski... He spends time with them. But he doesn't want to become " the good buddy ", as Burton tried to do. A cool guy who tells how he fucked his half brother's wife to the troops but a fine eonologist with commanders. He pretends to be an idiot with these morons's soldiers.

Lincoln wanted to be a good corporal, don't give up on his guys and bring their ass to a parents or a fiancée.  
  
His love and respect for the flag almost disappeared. He didn't fight for that reason anymore. A lot of his companions stop thinking about it. They just did what they were told to, no questions asked. Lincoln couldn't. Passivity wasn't an option.

 

* * *

 

  _ **March 1966**_

 

A pale sun is shining behind the clouds, this day of March 1966.   
  
Burton took advantage of a stop in a allied camp to gather the group and delivers the news. He walks through the soldiers, who were slumped on their bags. The sergeant wanted to be seen and heard by everyone, even when he makes trite remarks. Ennemans, on the other hand, do not bother. Just like any other recruits, he sat on his ass and lit a cigarette.  
  
_Ray-Ban_ on the nose, red scarf around his neck, the Sergeant claps his hands to have the attention of his men.

" Boys, let me be blunt. Special forces need us. "  
  
Lincoln frowns and waits for what comes next. Voices already rise, questions come from all sides. Burton ignores them all and pursues:  
  
" Guys ! Let me finish, for fuck's sake ! Our group was chosen to be part of a Task Force. CIA and Minister of Defense's order. And I'm telling you, it's a hell of an opportunity. "

" Opportunity my ass, " chuckles Ennemans.

" Anything to say, Sergeant? "

" Yeah, I have something to say. Sergeant. You guys, will have the FABULOUS opportunity to butcher Viet-Cong... "

" Sergeant! "

Ennemans rolls his eyes and focus back on his cigarette. It was easy for Burton to shut him down.

" So, what I was saying is that we're going to another camp, further north. They need us for more... discreet missions. But, not gonna lie, we'll be surrounded by CIA's shit-stirrer. "  
  
Ennemans grumbles, but Burton doesn't notice it. Or pretends not to.

The old bastard bawled against everything he could. Especially against what cames out of the other sergeant's mouth. But their shitty quarrel embarrassed the soldiers.  
  
During the break, his companions pick up rations and ammunitions, treat their tired feet or get an haircut. Lincoln cleans his rifle to keep his mind occupied. A well-cleaned weapon never gives you up. He was curious about the futur of his group, for once. Something was finally happening. Special forces. He heard about it, not for the better. Especially because they were into espionage and sneaky plans. Not the most shiny side of a war.

The posters which encouraged war effort were very far, now. On some of them, a sexy girl explained that she loves soldiers, that they are the bravest men of all. On others, the " communist octopus " choked the world with its silly ideas. The one who affected Lincoln the most talked about a " family ". US Army accept everybody, no exception. Your companions will become your brothers, your superiors will become your fathers. He had picked up one of these posters and eyed it a whole night. If this poster was true, if there was a family waiting for him somewhere, he will find it.   
  
What now? He did has a family. He didn't love all his brothers but wouldn't hesitate one second to gave his life for them. And he doesn't admire his fathers anymore.

 

* * *

 

The _Revere Camp,_ east of Quảng Trị. It was full of people, a kind of organized chaos: men run, loaded with files, helicopters lands, orders were passed on... The machine seems perfectly rounded.

  
Burton pushes away those who had the misfortune to cross its path. Nobody noticed him and it was the worst thing. His voice betrayed him, he was pissed off. He catches the arm of a man already pressed by his own duty and roars:

" Where I can find John Donovan ? "

" What ? " The helicopter's blades provoked a small storm. The soldier hang on to his sheets.

" John Donovan? He... "

" Oh! You're 223rd ? "

" Yes, Sergeant Burton. There's also Sergeant Ennemans with me. "

" I'll present you, your men can come later. Come ! "

" John Donovan? Who the fuck is that ? " asked Doroquez, while both sergeants disappear in the crowd and the dust.

" Leader, maybe. Know more about it, Corporal ? "

" Not really. I tried to make Burton talk before we leave but I got nothing. Special Forces, it's serious business. " says Lincoln.

" I bet these bastards drink a good glass of whiskey while we're here... "

" You're a boozer, Doroquez, " throws Doc Webb, who passed behind him.

" Thank you for taking care of my health, Doc, even if I think you just want to resell my liver on the black market ! Shit, what are we waiting for ! We walk for 2 days and mister Burton and Ennemans... "

" Shut up, someone's coming this way... " Lincoln pinches his ear like a professor with a dissipated kid.

Ennemans leads them to a big green tent. Big enough for at least twenty men. But it wasn't a place for soldiers. It was an headquarter. Impressive. Walls were papered with cork boards, and filled with photos. Radios, tape recorders, files piled up almost everywhere... A small CIA's corner in the middle of Vietnam.  
  
In front of a desk overflowed with maps, Burton discusses with a man. The Sergeant talks and the other one nods with a detached air. He stops the conversation and watches the group rushing into his place.

" Guys, This is John Donovan, says Burton with a grave tone. He's a member of CIA for 13 years and he's been there for 5. I can tell you that this gentleman knows the job. No more bullshit. "  
  
Lincoln hardly believes that this man had so many experiences. He seems young, with his round face, big blue eyes and neat blond hair. 5 years of Nam? Looks like he just had a twelve hours's night and a foot massage...

 

" PLATOON, ATTENTION ! "

 

The voice burst out like a gunshot. The order froze him to the bones and he finds himself executed it without a second though. It's a reflex, registered deep into his muscles. Fortunately, his companions did the same.  
  
Then the voice, the same voice, begins to laugh. A small, insolent laugh which came out of John Donovan's mouth.

 " Holy shit, look what you did, Sergeant ! " Boo, here comes the big bad John Donovan, from CIA... " Rest gentlemen, Rest. " He still chuckles. Burton smiles, his jaws wrinkled.

" Well ... I believe that... presentations are made. Then, can you explain ... "

" Recognition, 7 or 8 men. It will be your task for now. We need informations to infiltrate networks. I'll give instructions to the sergeants. If everything's fine, you're not gonna see my mug very often. "

" All right ... Well, thank you for the precisions. "

Donovan sit back to his desk and was already working on his typewriter. Burton certainly expected a red carpet and that Earth stops turning but the agent ignored him. He says, a cigarette in the corners of his lips:  
  
" That will be everything, Sergeant. Thank you. And welcome to Revere. "  
  
Burton looks like someone who swallowed a grenade without pin. The thing was deep in his throat, ready to explode. When they all leave the tent, Lincoln heard him curse: " What an asshole, that one ! Who stuck me with that moron ! "

Ennemans laughs boldly at Burton's misfortunes. Lincoln wanted to do the same but the face of his companions dissuaded him. They shared the sergeant's embarrassement, as stupid as he was. They are on unknown territory and their welcome gift was a bad joke.

If his companions decides to hate John Donovan, he'll follow the movement. But it would be a lie to say that the agent hadn't pricked his curiosity. Only a bit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the song _["Eve of Destruction"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntLsElbW9Xo)_ by Barry McGuire


	2. I'm a Believer

What can he writes to Ellis? Creased papers sprinkles his bed camp. He begins, then wrote the word of excess and stops. He just wants to tell him that things had changed, that he was Special forces, now. It wasn't worse than the Infantry, not really better.  
  
At least, they have a base camp, where they returned after every missions. There's fewer fights, too. SF worked out real tactics, complex plans, difficult to set up. But his group was doing well.

Burton still bears a grudge against John Donovan. He thought that he'll never receive order again, but he was wrong. He had to follow the instructions of Donovan, it was a matter of survival. If he didn't respect his plans, it will be a disaster. He was also pissed off because Donovan didn't share his bourbon: " I'm a fucking sergeant ! I hope he chokes on it, the son of a whore. " Unfortunately, John Donovan didn't choke and waits for him patiently, behind his typewriter, concocting one of his plans.

His admition to the Special Forces and the little quarrels in the camp were the only things Lincoln dared to tell. The others ? No, of course not. Ellis wouldn't judge him, he was maybe cutting someone throat at the moment. But they were far from each other, separated by the distance and the meaning of their acts.  
  
Something happened. Lincoln hesitates. He writes nothing but the memory had returned.

They were sent in a village, one week after their arrival. American troops have already made their way here. His group has for mission to bring survivors to the camp for " interrogation " and kills the one who couldn't be saved.

Lincoln never imagines that american soldiers could've done this. A slaughter. It was war, remembered Lincoln. It's happenned. And you're a soldier. Do it. Make your sergeants and your men proud.

He walked among corpses, cut by some rounds of bullets. There's no one to kill. No survivors. A lot of women and children. His comrades stay silent but their looks speak for themself. They were disgusted. Lincoln tried to focus on the mission. They have to find something !

In the end, Ennemans found a file and some papers, the translator told them that it was pro-viet-cong propaganda. Probably. Nothing more. No weapons, no hidden Viet-Cong in the huts. Just some goddamn papers.

" This is what I do, thinks Lincoln, this is what I do for my country. And I'll do it again. " He was ready to shoot the man who stands before him, rifle in his hands and the same rage in his belly. He never recalled the eyes of soldiers he killed but he'll never forget this village, the shredded bodies, their rotten smells and their lifeless looks.

No one has to know what happended here. He has no rights to worry them. He left alone, it was his decision and he will go through this on his own. He rips the sheet again. On another one, he writes as fast as he can that he's in Special Forces, he's doing okay and the CIA guy who supervise them isn't so bad.

 

* * *

 

Burton thought it was a joke when he learnt that Donovan would accompany them during the next mission. He told the news to every members of the group, one by one. For him, dragging this « shitty bureaucrat » was the funniest thing in the world. Burton was their sergeant and nevertheless, he looked like a 12-year-old kid who has a good laugh by seeing his rival falls in a puddle of mud. Lincoln almost smiled when he heard the news.

The temperature grew hotter and hotter every day. Lincoln wakes up and goes to bed soaked with sweat. Dust hung in the air, mosquitoes swarmed everywhere. The atmosphere was stifling, it gives him the impression that something was going to implode. But he doesn't know what. It was only an intuition.

The sergeant has a stupid smile on his lips. Lincoln is sure that he had spend the night looking for slurs to throw to Donovan's face. It begans early, in front of the agent's massive tent. Some of the men laugh when he insinuates that John Donovan takes more time to get ready that a chick. It wasn't funny, and not original: Burton doesn't seems to have been around a lot of woman to thinks this kind of bullshit.

But when Donovan gets out, he is far from being ridiculous. His uniform is the same than any other soldier, and it fits him well. His helmet has a few impacts, the trousers some holes.

Arms loads with tactical maps, he gaves one to Burton and Ennemans. While Donovan is about to begin the briefing, Burton stops him:

" Well, hello Mister John Donovan ! "

" Burton, Ennemans, he answers, with a small nod in their direction. So... "

" The alarm clock didn't ring this morning, Donovan ? "

" Burton ? "

" Yes ? " The sergeant gets closer to him, arms crossed, the air of an impertinent teenager on the face.

" I try to work, here. You should do the same. "

" Ah ! Fuck ! You... You're brilliant ! Not kidding with the CIA ! " He says, after several long seconds of silence. He fakes a giggle, a backup plan to avoid losing face.

Donovan's explanations are clear, precise, effective. The mission is simple: ground recognition, interrogation of the population and research. Routine.

Lincoln gathers his men, gives them maps and intructions. No way to lose one of them on the way or leaves with problems in mind. Last night, two guys fought: one SF's and one CIA's. Just insults and some punches, nothing serious but nobody needed it at the moment.

In New-Bordeaux, people still believe in coincidences, curse, fates... Here and now, Lincoln sees bad omens everywhere.

 

* * *

 

" What the fuck ! Where's the son of a bitch ? "

" Calm down, Burton... You're giving me a headache, you know that ? " says Ennemans.

" He should lead the way, with us. "

" Just give him a break, okay ? Our guys already think you act like a brat... Not like I give a shit about it... Just man... Don't screw it up... "

" You like that, don't you ? You like taking orders by this twat, this twat who spends most of his time sitting in a chair. Me ? I don't like it. "

" Relax, Burton... Or go talk to the Lieutenant, he will be delighted to listen to you and your wounded ego. "

" At least, I still have an ego... Hey, Clay ? Go check out what the hell Donovan's doing. "

" Yes, sergeant, " answers Lincoln. Before turning back, Burton catchs his arm and he could feel the nervousness in his hand:

" I want him to piss his pants, Clay. So, big voice and everything... You know what I mean, right ? "

" I'll do my best, Sergeant. "

Lincoln concentrates his anger in his fists. They are squeezed, furious, ready to punch. But he's keeping it to himself. It was just words in Burton's mouth. Words. But Lincoln had heard: " Do what people like you are made for, and don't pretend you don't get it. You people, are animals, so go devour this asshole, so that my hands remain nice and clean ! ". That was his sergeant's thoughts. Maybe some of his companions think like that, too. And certainly a good portion of American citizens.

Walking alone calmed his nerves a little. The group has outstripped him. With every steps, he fells his skull cool off, his ideas finds their places again. He finally is by John Donovan's side and he doesn't want to frighten him. He disobeys but the order was stupid, like the man who gives it.

The agent had put his bag on the ground and annotates a map.

" Everything's okay ? "

" Huh ? Answers Donovan, the cap of its felt pen stucks between his teeth. Oh, don't worry about me, I'll catch up with the group later. "

" Sorry to bother with this but Burton wants to see you lead the walk. "

" Why ? "

" Respect for the hierarchy, I think. "

" He don't like me, Burton, right ? " The question seems quite serious, kind of disturbing but John said it with a voice full of mischief.

" Not sure if he ever likes someone, except himself. "

" If this bullshit amuses him, what can I say ? But I don't have time for that. "

They walk for long hours now but it didn't seem to have deflated John Donovan's good mood. He answers calmly and moves forward with determination.

As he watchs him gets away, he reminds the things they say about Donovan. Was they true ? Impossible. But several soldiers told Lincoln that he always make the prisonners talk. No exception. The best agent in the company. The most vicious, some say.

 

 " Can I ask you something, Sir ? "

 

John Donovan opens his mouth to answer but a huge detonation cut his words. More powerful than a gunshot, than a grenade... Dozens of bird fly away, frightened. Soldiers cannot do the same. Without a second thought, Lincoln and John run toward the smoke who rise up in the air. They both lost their survival instinct a long time ago, the one who yells to stay away from any danger.

 " What the hell is going on, Donovan ? " Bawls Burton. He looks furious, but he can't hide an hint of satisfaction. There's somethings wrong, and he can put the blame on the CIA agent, at last.

" We shoudn't take iniative, if you want my opinion, says Ennemans. So what ? Turn back ? "

" No we don't ! What if our boys are up there ? Where's the goddamn RTO1 ? "

" Listen, I'm gonna go check the situation and come back as soon as I can, " proposes John Donovan.

" Of-fucking-course ! Super Donovan saves the day again ! You'll even get a pretty medal for it ! No way, I'm the sergeant here ! We're all going, you hear me ? "

" I don't give a shit about that, you stupid asshole ! I'll put your name on the report, for what I care ! Burton... No, fuck it. I'm off. "

 

It was one of the last moment Lincoln clearly remembered. His other memories were blurred. What come to his mind is panic, confusion, shouts... More explosions...

 

* * *

 

A clear light. Around him, everything was perfectly white. Heaven ? 

 

No smell of powder, no dust, no gunshot. Peace. No need to fight anymore, he can close his eyes and fall asleep.

 

" Lincoln ? Lincoln, I see you, man ! Stay with me ! "

 A voice. A nasal voice. A well-known voice. He turns his head in her direction but he can't discern a definite picture. He just wants to sleep.

" Hey, Lincoln ! I wanted to see you before I get out of this fucking place ! "

" Where... Where are... "

" Quan-Tri Clinic. Thanks to you. "

" Fuck... Doroquez ? "

" You got that right ! I won a one-way ticket for Chicago. Look at that ! Completely mashed ! " He says, patting the thick plaster which cover his left leg.

Lincoln begins to regain his senses. Everything was brilliant and white: the bed's sheets, the curtains, the ground, the ceiling... But it certainly wasn't the afterlife and Doroquez was far from being an angel. He drags himself in a wheelchair, a radiant smile on his face.

" I can call a nurse, if you want. "

" I want you to tell me what happenned, Jesus, I don't remember a goddamn thing... "

" You should see the bandage around your head... I don't have a lot of time but I'd try to give you the big picture, alright ? You'll see everything in the AAR2 anyway. But first of all... Fuck, I don't know how to put it right... Thank you, Caporal Clay. "

" You scare me, Doroquez, just spit it out ! "

" Well, you're not gonna be surprised if I tell you that Burton didn't listen to Donovan, right ?

" They were fighting, yes... Burton was howling and Donovan left. Wait, where's Burton ? Ennemans ? "

" They make it through, don't worry. We were supposed to wait for Donovan, but Burton led us to the front. A lot of VC3 ... We manage to hide till the Air Cav4 come and save our ass. But, not everyboby... "

" Who ? "

" Ellis and I. You got us out of here, man. "

" I don't get it. "

" We retreat in an old building but Ellis got shot in the neck, just a scratch but still... And I took a rounds in the leg. We were behind, all alone... Osborne told me that Burton completely freaked out and gave the order to stay in here, no exception. But you and some other guys protest and... Hell, I wish I'd seen it... Donovan punched him in the face. I don't know what happened next. You came back and carry us both. And here I am, safe and sound. Almost sound. "

" So... Everybody's okay ? "

" Yup. A fucking miracle. What is … ? " Doroquez twists on his wheelchair, trying to pick up something. He rises again, a letter in his hand.

" For Lincoln Clay. Hum, maybe a pretty little nurse who wants to take care of you ? "

" Give it to me. I though you were here to talk, not piss me off, damn... "

" Okay, okay... "

Doroquez puts the letter under his snub nose, trying to detect a lady's perfum but he winces.

Lincoln reads through the letter, picks up some words to satisfy his comrade's curiosity. He was looking at him, eyes wide open. But every sentences leaves him speechless.

" So what ? I was right, then ! It's a … "

" They recommend me for a Bronze Star. "

" You deserve it, pal. You deserve it. "

" Thanks. "

" Take care, Lincoln... Give me some news if you can. "

" Got it, Doroquez. "

 

His eyes can't leave the letter. It's a long one, hand-written. A long letter signed by John Donovan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABBREVIATIONS:
> 
> 1 : Radio Telephone Operator  
> 2 : After-Action Report  
> 3 : Viet Cong  
> 4 : Air Cavalry
> 
> The title is taken from the song _["I'm a Believer"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wB9YIsKIEbA)_ by The Monkees.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you like it ♥


	3. Bad Moon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since the last update, but I hope you'll like this chapter !  
> On [Tumblr](http://gertie-uberkatze.tumblr.com/) ;)

 

**_May 1966_ **

 

Lincoln still doesn’t like planes. He finds himself pile up in a C-1301, among bags, weapons, ammunitions... Lincoln feels like he’s a fucking package, drags from base to base. During the flight, a guy named Tyresse Miller tells him all about his life in five minutes. He kinda looks like Ellis, he’s thin, nervous and chatty. But they manage to have a decent conversation, even if Lincoln listens more than he talks, he’s happy to do it. Their experiences are similar : notice by a CIA agent who happen to be here at the good moment and at the good place.

« Agent Demarais. That’s a weird-ass name, if you want my opinion... » howls Miller, his voice barely stands out from the engine’s heavy rumbling. « But the guy thinks I’ve got potential, not gonna complain ! »

On any other maps of the area, Long Tieng2 is nothing more than an american air base. But even the maps have to lie... Long Tieng, or LS 98, is an authentic little city, composes by sheet metal huts, cement building and tiny food shop are running along the streets. It’s been awhile since Lincoln could observe some ordinary life: kids playing, women washing clothes... In this mountain's side place, there’s a semblance of daily life. It’s kinda… heartwarming.

That’s what he saw when he got up the dusty streets with the guys of his platoon. Tyreese comments everything he sees : a restaurant with a jukebox, a fucking jukes-box ! And some Papa-San cooking... god knows why in a little cauldron. This thing smell like rotten fish and over-baked vegetables.

His first day looks like any other first day : they install, they introduce themself, they fill a tons of officials papers... In the dormitory they share, they exchange their names and a few words. There’s Miller, and two black soldiers, Eli Barry and Harold Everett. Barry’s from New-York, Everett from Chicago (it’s written in big letters on his helmet). They set foot in Nam at the same time and never split. A tall blond guy, with a long and complicate name, polish or russian... He asks everybody to call him « Nikki ». Another one wears some plastic glasses, the glasses they put in every pack. His name is Joe Knight, he talks a lot but most of his words come from famous authors : Kerouac, Salinger, Burroughs, Henry Miller... He reads them all, and never miss to point it.

With the few words they exchange, he understands that all these guys already have a direction. They see themself far, far away, back to America. Back home. They clearly see the desk, the chair where they’re going to sat their asses down, and the check, at the end of the month. Lincoln knows it too, he heards them : the Agency gives you a good place if you do what they ask. His comrades are ambitious and didn’t bother to hide it. It was a big step forward to be here and not at the front, where he has to obey to some brainless sergeants. But he misses his pals.

They are kicked out of the dorm in order to meet their superiors, in a tatty building. The place looks like a classroom, and he can’t help wondering if US Soldiers have pinched nearby schools to get tables, boards, chairs, maps...

John Donovan stands among the others agents, nose deep in a thick file. Tyreese point at the now infamous Demarais, a black-haired man with a tanned skin and a chummy air : he gives frank pat on the back to everyone who fall close to his hand. When Donovan catchs his gaze, he nods at him and Lincoln does the same. Nothing more, nothing less. No hug, no « I’m so glad to see you, Clay ! »... And he silently thanks him for that. No way he turns into someone protégé. He has to prove his worth and finds his place by himself. Even if it means to do it all over again.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know what makes his brain boils the most : this goddamn sun who never sleeps or the vietnamese’s classes. Vietnamese is... difficult. But he tries, as hard as he can.

It’s also during these classes that he remarks a tendency. He’s in a group of twelve guys and there’s already two well definite clans : men who talk (or rather, listen) to Joe Knight and men who don’t. Even Tyreese falls under his spell. Knight knows how to draw the attention, with long monologues on the meaning of life, the war, girls... And when the bell rings (well, when the teacher closes all the books on his desk, that’s the signal), there’s always a little crowd to congratulate him. And this crowd grow bigger after every new lessons.

Soon, they’re going to be assign on PBR3. But for now, they train. And when they didn’t train, they get bored.

Several fights breaks out in a few days. Lincoln ignores the reasons, but it’s never a good thing to leave men think about their utility for too long. Some Air Force pilots are here for weeks, so, they’re cogitating.

PBR’s were a good way to draw away from the nervousness and the tension which reign in Long Tieng. In groups of three or four men, they embark on old but solid tubs. Files were closed, ready to be filled, guns were loaded, men were trainned : the patrol boat pulls away from the edge and gets carried away by the Mekong.

The soldier pass the binoculars to each other and watch the river’s side. But the jungle’s so dense it’s difficult to catch a goddamn thing. And sometimes, when they think they saw an irregularity, a move, it’s usually the tiredness which tricks them.

But at dusk, when the sun sets, Lincoln almost finds this country beautiful. Magnificent. This sky could be Louisiana’s. And in the waves the boat leaves in the Mekong, he can see the one who shakes the bayou, after the passage of a steamboat.

He can almost hear their voices. His friends. Danny tells them his last affair, with a pretty waitress of Point Verdun. Ellis doesn’t believe him. And he’s right. Danny talks a lot, but doesn’t act a lot and they end up jerking him around. Georgi talks about his old man, as always… He drinks too much and cries like a baby or breaks everything he touchs… This guy can’t handle booze and they are thrown out of every bars. But they have fun, they always have.

Sat on the deck after his shift, his M-164 close to hand, he thinks about their chats, their problems which seems so small, now. He’s still young, too young for this, and he’s gonna lose this youth here. Fuck. Nostalgia stricks again. It’s time to stop staring at the sky and looks down on this land, this country which needs them.

His one-day team gets back to the shore in the night. He volunteers to bring the report to Donovan. Davis and Lawrence can’t stop talking about Knight : was he here ? Did he organizes one of his « meeting ». They were known to everyone in the 5th, these « meetings »… Knight always manages to find booze, spliffs, music… And his own presence, of course.

 

* * *

 

How could this guy gets his bearing in this goddamn mess ? You can barely walk in here without putting your feet on papers or photograph or… whatever. There’s stacks of files everywhere and he adds more and more every single time.

At the end of the room, a desk lamp lights a huge Laos’s maps. It was striped by long red lines and thick black crosses, full of notes and pins. The Phoenix Program. And the man in charge.

He was dozing : sat cross-legged, back against the desk, head leaning on his chest.

« Goddamn it. »

And, of course, a lit cigarette hangs from his lips.

« Donovan ? Sir ? »

« Huh ? » John’s hand furtively went to the gun next to him. Casting a glance to Lincoln, he breathes out and dusts the ashes on his dark green shirt.

« You're gonna burn the place down, one day... »

« Yeah, I’ll leave nothing compromising behind me, that way... » He was already lighting another one...

« Someone used to told me that if I forget to sleep, sleep wouldn’t forget me. »

Lincoln gives him the files and the agent quikly browses throught it. His look is sharp again, he’s scanning a page, then the next, puts some aside… « Who ? »

« What ? »

« Who said this to you ? » Donovan’s fingers freezes, he raises his eyes and sticks them into Lincoln’s.

« You care ? »

« Just bein’ curious. »

« Curious with everybody ? »

« Oh, I would. But as you can see, » he says, pretending to look for something or someone, « it’s not really crowded, here. » A small giggle escapes him.

« It surely ain’t... » Ends up saying Lincoln. It was never crowded around John Donovan. He hearded folks saying that he prefers papers to people. That he was taking things too seriously. But can you really take war too seriously, he wonders… He saw him once, at lunch, eating alone in a makeshift canteen : a fork in one hand, a pen in another. Checks his hand and chats a little crossed his mind, but there’s an invisible line between agents and soldiers, and he wanted to stay on the soldier’s side.

« That’s okay. Forget it. Got something for your group, tomorrow. See you at the briefing. » The sheets flows in John’s hand anew. Their noises blends with the recorders’s purring and the engine’s humming in the distance.

Lincoln moves backward, but as soon as he makes the first step, he has the impression that it’s not the right things to do. In this room, there’s silence where it may have been voices, words, shitty anecdotes…

« It was a priest. Father James. »

John raises his head. There’s surprise in his look. He closes the file, picks a pack of cigarettes in his shirt’s pocket and hands it to Lincoln.

« You’re a man of faith yourself ? » He asks, after some silent seconds.

« Can’t say so, Sir. »

« Me neither. And… Don’t bother with that « Sir » bullshit. »

« I’ll try. » Lincoln sits down and feels around his jacket, looking for his matchbox but Donovan’s lighter is already at the end of his cigarette.

« Hey, don’t you got a question for me ? Before a goddamn bomb blows up in our faces and Burton barely screws up everything... »

« Shit, I didn’t even… » he answers. The fact that John actually remembers this makes him smile. « Talkin’ about that, what the fuck happen out there ? »

« A fucking mole in our own fucking camp. A guy named Wurtz, went missing last year, turns out he defects for the VC5 and casually chitchats with others soldiers in Quan Tri. That’s how he gots info. The cocksucker will never face justice tough… They find his body among his Viets buddies. »

« Heard stories like that, didn’t know it was a thing... »

« It is. » John pauses and takes a quick look in his right hand but closes it straight away, like he’s trying to confine a memory in his palm. « I can get you the AAR6, if you want the details. »

« Nah, what’s done is done. » 

 

* * *

 

_**June 1966** _

 

He doesn’t know why he’s talking. But he’s talking. He meets up with Donovan after each PBR and what was supposed to be courtesy turns out to be long discussions, man to man, comrades to comrades. He didn’t even notice the cigarettes accumulating in the cinder, or the sun breaking through the curtains. But every time, on the way back to his cabin, he feels guilty. He feels like the guy who said too much to a man he barely knows. And when his head hits the pillow, he tries to find reasons. The most obvious one was that he talks because someone is listening. He could die tomorrow and no time to waste with propriety : if he couldn’t share his memories now, they’ll be lost forever. That's why he talks. Of course, that's why. No other reasons. Really.

Really ?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABBREVIATIONS AND NOTES :
> 
> 1 : Large propeller-driven Air Force planes that carry people and cargo _([a C-130](http://www.spectre-association.org/images/aircraft/56_0471_C130.jpg))_  
>  2 : Long Tieng is a Laotian military base. During the Laotian Civil War, it served as a town and airbase operated by the CIA ([Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_Tieng))  
> 3 : Patrol Boat River. Navy designation for the fast, heavily armed boats used for safeguarding the major canals and rivers and their tributaries in South Vietnam _([a PBR](https://donmooreswartales.files.wordpress.com/2010/12/bill-schwartz-6.jpg))_  
>  4 : The standard U.S. military rifle used in Vietnam from 1966 on _([a M-16](http://ww4.hdnux.com/photos/33/63/23/7288063/3/rawImage.jpg))_  
>  5 : Viet Cong  
> 6 : After Action Report
> 
> The title is taken from the song [_"Bad Moon Rising"_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUQiUFZ5RDw) by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to the song "Born to be Wild" by Steppenwolf.  
> I was inspired by the movie "Platoon" (Oliver Stone) and the novel "One to Count Cadence" (James Crumley).


End file.
